Exclusivity
by RavenclawGenius
Summary: HGDM: Hermione hadn't expected to be here tonight, in this dress, and these heels. She hadn't anticipated that she would have such a sudden inclination to get drunk.


She wasn't in the habit of drinking. In fact, she wasn't in the habit of wearing slinky black dresses fitted to absolute perfection, and three inch heels that highlighted the long length of her legs.

She'd been told that it was a shame that she hated to dress so elegantly – because it suited her, apparently.

But that was truly irrelevant.

Hermione hadn't expected to be here tonight, in this dress, and these heels. She hadn't anticipated that she would have such a sudden inclination to get drunk.

But she did. God, she wanted to be drunk. She wanted to forget this wretched night, and that wretched whore that had robbed her of her past vision of happiness. She wanted to forget that she'd been so looking forward to this night, despite the fact that it had been deemed a black-tie event. She wanted to forget that she had showed up at the ball without him, and found that _woman_ draped over his arm, childishly batting her eyes at him. She wanted to forget the sympathetic looks she'd received from her friends.

But most of all, she wanted to forget Narcissa's words of attempted comfort.

"_She's an absolute boor," Narcissa had said. "She can't string a polite conversation together for all the world. And Merlin – that _laugh_. It's so obnoxious, Hermione. She has nothing on you."_

And regarding her mentality, that woman _certainly_ had nothing on Hermione's intellect. But regarding her appearance, Hermione was the one that was lacking, and really, that had always been what Draco was after, hadn't it? She'd thought that he had changed. Worse, she thought that he had changed _for her_.

She tossed back a shot of some alcoholic concoction that she might have ordered, but she couldn't remember what it was. And it didn't matter. She was half-past drunk, and that had been her objective.

He'd always told her that he couldn't commit. She'd heeded to that, in the beginning. She'd counted on it, really. She was thrilled on the days that he took her out. It had been casual then, and easy to accept his refusal to constrain himself to an exclusive relationship.

But then things changed. He sent flowers to her office and she could never restrain the blush that flooded to her cheeks, despite her sincerest wishes. He'd stop by, unannounced, and take her to lunch, smirking at the catcalls from the men in her office and the sighs of envy from the women. Then he'd pressed things further, and started making _reservations._

Surely men didn't make _reservations_ for classy, glamorous dinners with women they had no intentions of courting?

For the past six months she had spent her every Saturday evening with him in some upscale restaurant with topnotch service – restaurants which only Malfoy could afford so often. For the past six months, she had refrained from labeling him as anything, but had secretly thought that they had _been_ exclusive. It had been no matter that he had originally said that he would not; he had not been on a date with another woman during that six months.

The _Prophet_ would have made a scandal of it, because they, too, had taken the liberty of presuming that their relationship was set in stone.

But tonight, the stone had cracked. It had been carelessly tossed around and hurled against the floor, until the slab of slate had been totaled and destroyed, left in a mass of tiny, irreparable pieces, and she had no clue what do with them.

She had dated men before him. She'd been involved in a serious relationship or two. But she'd never hurt as badly as she did tonight.

Hermione swallowed another shot of the liquor that had been handed to her, fighting against the block in her throat, and she battled it away long enough to get the burning liquid into her system.

How could she have been so _stupid_? She had never been one to give her heart away easily. She had always rolled her eyes when women confessed to being in love with men they had dated for two months. But it had been gradual. She had fallen in love before the expensive dinners, before the flowers, and even before the casual lunches. And how were those things meant to help her fall _out_ of love?

And then, two months ago, there had been the jewelry.

Come to think of it, she was wearing it tonight. How ironic.

Two months ago she had come home after a particularly grueling day at work, and had spent an hour or so soaking in the bath with the bubble-jet running and soft fragrances scenting the water. There had been light music in the background – classical, she remembered – and she had been entirely relaxed.

Then the door had creaked open. She hadn't been worried; her wards had been accepting Draco for months, by that point. It was not out of the norm for him to stop by after work and relax with a glass of wine and a few kisses which, most of the time, led to much more intimate activities.

But that night he had not stopped in the kitchen to pour the wine and wait for her to finish. That night he had opened the bathroom door, and when she'd looked at him she'd seen an anxious look to him that she had never before seen on any Malfoy's face, let alone _her_ Malfoy's face.

She hadn't said anything. She shouldn't have, really, because then he wouldn't have given it.

He'd cleared his throat and looked around uneasily, clearly finding the present situation much more romantic than he'd wanted to make it. The music still played gently in the backdrop, and she had been suddenly aware of the strength of the scent that her bath supplies produced.

"Mother wanted you to have them," he'd said.

Only, Hermione had worn the thin, platinum bracelet and necklace to a Ministry function the following month and Narcissa had been in utter astonishment. She had been informed that they had belonged to the women in the Malfoy family for the last century, since their original creation.

And how could she have still expected that he still wanted an open relationship after that?

The tears that she had worked so hard to block were seeping through her protective walls, and out through the corners of her eyes. She was sure that her face was streaked with red, but she couldn't stop the stampede that had begun.

The bell above the door of the bar jingled softly, but she didn't turn around. She didn't really care who'd just come in, anyway.

"Another drink, please," she choked.

"You gonna be alright to get home, lady?" The crass bartender asked.

"Don't worry about it," she heard. "I'll take her. Get her whatever she likes."

She closed her eyes and bowed her head, chin sinking to her chest weakly. She didn't want him here. She didn't want him to see her like this. What did he want, anyway? Hadn't he done enough for tonight?

"What the hell are you doing here?" Draco sneered distastefully.

She didn't answer him. She couldn't, really, because that would be admitting that he was the cause, and she wasn't ready to have that conversation yet.

He sighed and unraveled his scarf, throwing it over the back of the chair in front of him with unnecessary force, and tossing his cloak over it in a similar fashion. "I've been all over London looking for you, Granger."

She flinched. Why? Why did he go through the trouble of it? Clearly she didn't matter to him. What purpose did he have to look for her?

"How many drinks have you had?"

She shrugged. That was an honest enough answer. She typically stopped counting drinks when she became too inebriated to think of what the drink _was_.

"Here, lady," the bartender set another glass, filled to the brim with the same liquid, in front of her. She suddenly didn't feel like drinking, anymore.

"Well?" Draco snapped. "You ordered it, Granger. Drink it."

That tone, that attitude was so foreign to her, now. He hadn't spoken to her that way in several months, and even then they had been in the midst of an argument, and she had hurled a similar tone and attitude back at him.

Maybe this drink wouldn't be as difficult as she thought. She put it to her lips and gulped the shot down in a matter of moments.

"Damn it," he said, pulling his hands through his hair. "You weren't supposed to be upset."

Had he expected her to be happy?

"Not this upset," he amended. "You were meant to go to Potter's, or to Weasley's. You weren't meant to come to some godforsaken, seedy bar and drink yourself into oblivion, Granger."

She failed to see how Harry and Ron factored into the equation. And even further, she failed to understand why he had planned for this at all.

Draco was quiet for the following moments, and then he ordered a shot of firewhiskey from the bartender. He nursed it slowly. She held her empty glass of alcohol loosely in her hand while he seemed to ponder what to say.

"She means nothing to me," he admitted, his voice barely reaching a whisper.

Hermione recoiled. "Is that meant to make me feel… better?" The bartender brought her another drink when she held up the empty glass, suddenly wanting much more alcohol and much less feeling.

He shrugged. "I thought it might."

She laughed. "Well that's rich," she said hysterically, still laughing, and then any trace of amusement rapidly fell from her countenance. "You single-handedly destroy my heart, and yet you still make an attempt to lighten my spirits. Thanks for that, Malfoy," she saluted him with her drink. "I appreciate it."

He shouldn't have had the right to shudder away from her the way that he did. He shouldn't have the right.

"Let me finish," he argued solemnly.

"Let you finish what, exactly?" She snarled, her head whirling and her vision unable to focus, but her heart viciously reacting to the cruelties of his words. "You don't need to say a word, Draco. I entirely understand. You never wanted to be together anyway; I'm entirely at fault for thinking otherwise."

"Damn it, Granger, shut _up!_" Draco's patience broke harshly. "I'm trying to apologize, and give you an explanation, so you can just sit on that pretty little drunk arse of yours until I'm good and finished."

She was angry. Justifiably so, she thought. She wasn't the one that had attended the event with another partner, and she hadn't been the one to ask him to go to the ball with her at all. He had been at fault for that one. He had no right to tell her to shut up, nor to speak to her that way.

"Her name was Brooke," Draco started.

Was she meant to care about that woman's name? She found herself lacking the ability to do so.

"She was impolite, unmannered, ostentatious, and utterly egocentric."

Hermione didn't care. That did _not_ help her. It pained her to know that he had stood her up for another woman, but that pain was nothing compared to the heart-wrenching, gut twisting hurt that assaulted her body when he informed her that she had been stood up for a woman that meant _nothing_ to him, without a lick of sense for propriety.

How little Draco must have truly cared for her.

"I had a plan, Hermione," he said quietly, taking another sip of his drink. "I had a plan to get rid of you, because you scare me to the grave. And I was perfectly content to execute the plan until I saw you tonight. You're a prideful woman, Hermione; I knew that you would go to the ball with or without me, and I was counting on it. I'd been with Brooke for an hour before you showed up – an hour that I spent feeling nothing but guilt for leaving you the way that I did. And then you came," he choked, tossed back the rest of his drink, and continued. "You just looked so… normal. And I knew you were saving face, but everyone kept going up to you and looking at Brooke and I. I just knew they were trying to talk you into feeling something, and it didn't work. Not until my mother got to you."

She didn't need a play-by-play of how hard the blow had been. She didn't need to know how he had perceived her breakdown. Narcissa had stealthily pulled her from the ballroom and tried to talk to her, but she had been unable to work past the sobs. There hadn't been tears, then, just sobs.

Hermione pressed her fingers to her mouth to stem the new sobs that threatened to tumble from her mouth. Couldn't he be finished with her? Couldn't he just say that his plan succeeded and be on his way?

"And after you left, I couldn't take it. I left, and I went to your house, then I went to Potter's, then Weasley's, and you weren't there. And I asked my mother, and she suggested the bars, after she nearly cursed me to hell, and I looked in eight different bars in the city until I found you. I didn't – I _didn't_ want to love you, Hermione."

What was he trying to say?

"But I do, damn it," he cursed, tugging at his hair again. "I do love you. And I know I've mucked everything up tonight, Granger, but I want to do this properly, and if you won't let me then I wanted to at least explain what happened tonight. I was wrong – I was _so_ wrong to do this to you. I was wrong to be afraid of loving you."

She couldn't think. She'd done that to herself. She had been drowning in her memories for the past three hours, but she simply couldn't process this new information with so much alcohol in her system. "I have to go," she mumbled. "I – I'm too drunk. I can't understand, or retaliate or – well, I just can't do this now. This is… too much."

She tossed her galleons on the bar, and shakily stood, stumbling over her heel.

"Let me take you home," Draco demanded. "You won't make it out the door, Granger."

He was right, but she held up a hand to stop him anyway.

"I won't stay," he promised. "I'll just put you to bed. I wouldn't – You know I wouldn't take advantage of you that way."

She thought she'd known that he would never betray her the way that he did tonight, but she'd been wrong on that front, too. How was it fair for him to do this to her and expect her to allow it?

"Please," he begged. "Let me take you home, Granger."

"Lady, I think you'd better," the barkeep grunted.

The third party was too much. She couldn't argue when, really, she didn't want to be alone, Draco insisted, and the barkeep contributed. It was just too much.

Draco tried to steady her by placing an arm around her waist, but she drew the line there. She shrugged him off and, in the process, stumbled a few steps away from him. He put his hands up to convey that it had been an innocent gesture, but she still hadn't cared for it.

They left the bar, and her exposed flesh was submitted to the harsh, biting winter winds. Draco wrapped his cloak around her shoulders, directing her toward the nearest apparition point without touching her, as she had requested. She was pleased, in her drunken state, that he had still adhered to her wishes.

"Can I apparate you back?" He asked.

She wanted to say no. But how else was she meant to get home? She could hardly remember where home _was_, let alone focus her bleary mind enough to apparate there. She nodded reluctantly, but he made it semi-painless. He gripped her hand tightly and the next she remembered was falling into the door of her house.

"Easy," Draco muttered, opening the door, and immediately led her by the hand up into her bedroom.

Hermione fell into her bed easily, still dressed, and allowed him to pull the blanket over her. He kept to his word and turned around to leave as soon as she was tucked in. "Draco," she whispered softly.

He stopped, but didn't turn around. "What?"

"My heart hurts."

"I know," he said blankly. "I know."

"It's your fault," she accused.

"Yes," he said stonily. "I know it is."

"I hate you."

She heard the intake of breath, but was too drunk – and suddenly too sleepy – to interpret it.

"You should."

"But I can't," she yawned. "I just want to."

"Go to sleep."

"Don't tell me what to do," she argued stubbornly. "I want to hate you right now, because I won't be able to when I wake up."

"Why?"

"Because," she mumbled, "then I'll be sober, and I'll understand whatever it is that you told me tonight. And I'll give in to you – I know I will. Because I love you, and I want you to love me, even if you really don't. So I want to hate you right now."

"I do," he told her. "I do love you."

She waved a hand carelessly. "You say you do when I'm drunk. It doesn't count."

She wanted it to count, though. She couldn't be too drunk to forget that she wanted him to love her. She'd wanted him to love her for two years.

"Hate me now, if you'll love me in the morning," he pleaded finally.

Maybe she would settle for that. Maybe.


End file.
